Sea of Greed

Engaging his thrusters, Paul traveled the length of the hull, passing the conning tower and maneuvering toward the front of the ship. He paused over a mound of silt that had covered the bow like a sand dune. Using his thrusters, Paul scoured away the sediment.

Kurt and Rudi watched the results. The distinctive sonar housing and the opened outer door of the number one torpedo tube were plainly visible. “That’s her, all right,” Rudi said. “Your skills of divination have few equals.”

“Thanks,” Kurt said. “I’ll take the pat on the back later. Let’s get that sub open and find what we came here for.”

• • •

AS KURT, PAUL AND GAMAY began working on the French submarine, Hiram Yaeger sat at his desk five thousand miles and seven time zones away watching the progress remotely.

It was just past midnight in Washington, D.C.

“Does it look like they’re cutting in the right place?” Hiram asked Max.

Max replied with typical precision. “Based on the camera angle and the orientation of the submarine’s centerline, Paul and Gamay appear to be cutting within six inches of the optimal location. A perfectly adequate level of precision for human work.”

“What are the chances that submarine is filled with explosive gas?” Hiram asked.

“Unknown,” Max said, “though unlikely, in general.”

“That’s one less thing to worry about.” Hiram leaned back, put his feet up on the desk and kept his eyes focused on the monitor. Using the Trench Crawler’s welding tools, Paul had just finished removing a section of the outer hull. He and Gamay were now going to work on the submarine’s inner pressure hull.

The process was slow and Hiram began to feel drowsy as he watched. He was just starting to nod off to sleep when his desk phone rang in a particularly shrill tone. Jerking upright, he pulled his feet off the desk. “Max, if this is you, I’m disconnecting your power supply.”

“The incoming call is not my doing,” Max said. “It’s the communications office.”

“At this hour?” Hiram picked up the phone. “This is Yaeger.”

“Mr. Yaeger, this is Ellie Ramos in communications.”

“What can I do for you, Ms. Ramos?”

“I have something you need to hear. It’s coming in on the 12.290 kHz band.”

“The old shortwave emergency band?”

“Yes,” Ms. Ramos said. “It’s the marine band. Even though it’s not officially in use anymore, we still monitor it.”

“If someone is declaring an emergency, you need to put it through to the Coast Guard or—”

“It’s not a marine emergency,” she replied. “It may even be a joke, I’m not really sure. But, please, could you just listen.”

“Put it through.”

A brief click tied the transmission into Hiram’s phone and Hiram put the phone on speaker. At first, all he heard was static, then a low squeal that faded, leaving only a continuous background buzz. Finally, words emerged.

“…unsure of our exact location, somewhere in Kazakhstan between… and forty-seven degrees north latitude… one hundred and fifty miles east of the Caspian Sea…”

A chill ran down Hiram’s spine as he recognized the voice. “Priya?” he said. “Priya, can you hear me?”

Ellie Ramos replied. “We tried to speak to her already. Either it’s a one-way broadcast or she’s simply unable to pick up our response. Either way, she has been speaking continuously since the transmission started, repeating some of what she’s already said.”

“Because she has no idea how much is getting through,” Hiram said. “Tell me you’re recording this.”

“We’re following standard emergency broadcast protocol.”

NUMA recorded all emergency radio calls, storing important ones in a computer archive indefinitely.

Priya’s voice returned and Hiram fell silent.

“…Joe assisted my escape… now missing… Had been attempting to sabotage the Monarch…”

“Did she say Joe?”

“Affirmative,” Max said.

“…Tessa Franco working with members of regional oil Consortium… ecological intentions fraudulent… Goal is permanent worldwide oil shortage…”

Another squeal interrupted the broadcast.

“Max, triangulate the signal. We need to know where she’s broadcasting from.”

“Triangulation impossible,” Max said. “None of our other shortwave receivers are picking up the signal. Perhaps due to the transmitter location, atmospheric effects or the quality of receiving equipment.”

The antennas built into the NUMA HQ were among the most sensitive in the world, designed to pick up even the faintest radio calls from around the globe. The only equipment matching what they had in D.C. was at another NUMA facility in Hawaii, five thousand miles farther away, too far to pick up Priya’s broadcast.

The signal cleared and Priya’s voice returned once again, this time it was so faint that Hiram could hardly hear it.